Condemned

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “Mmm. Mr. Red,” Money said into the phone softly. “I got something for you to cogitate.”

  “What’s that, Money? Who was that you were talking to?”

  “Matthew, the waiter.”

  “Let me say hello to Matthew.”

  “Mr. Red wants to say hello,” Money said to the waiter.

  The waiter smiled as he took the phone. “Yes, sir, Mr. Red. How are you? Guess not so good, being where you’re at.”

  “No, no, it’s fine, Matthew. Cooking and drinks are not as good as I’d like, but, tips and all, we’re getting along.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Red.”

  “How have you been, Matthew? How’s your family?”

  “Real fine, Mr. Red. Real fine. Daughter Ruby was asking about you when she heard on the news about you.”

  “You say hello to Ruby for me, hear?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Red. Her little girl is almost all grown. Thirteen, now. Mostly ’cause of your help.”

  “You say hello to that young lady, too. What’s her name?”

  “Evangeline,” said Matthew with a proud smile.

  “Evangeline. Lovely.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Red.”

  “Let me talk to Money, again.”

  The waiter handed the phone back to Money.

  “What’s that you were saying I should think about?” said Red.

  “Matthew was telling me he was here the other day, and Awgust and Anton was with some people. He says these folks became somewhat agitated. So much so that one of them slaps a girlfriend in the face, or something. So he says, just now, Matthew does, to Awgust, as he putting down his drink, ‘I hope your friend’s girlfriend is feeling better’. And I say to Awgust, just in passing, ‘any trouble?’ And he says to me, ‘no, just some I-talians from Pelham’. He said they got all excited and all, like I-talians get when they’re talkin’. Then Matthew takes me aside just now and tells me he knows I-talian, worked in some places, listens to Danny and Joe over here. He says they weren’t no I-talians. Some foreign language—but definitely not I-talian.”

  “Matthew is a good man. Knows his stuff. Used to be a collector for the number with us in the old days, remember?”

  “I remember—Forty-Ninth Street.”

  “Never made a mistake with the count, never a penny off.”

  “Mmm, I remember. That’s why I thought I’d tell you.”

  “Never knew Matthew to miss anything. Some foreign language, he said, but not Italian? Is he sure?”

  “He said he’s positive.”

  “Positive,” repeated Matthew.

  “And Awgust lied about it when you asked him?”

  “That’s what he did,” said Money.

  “That is something to think about.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Money’s eyelids fluttered at the ceiling again.

  “Give Matthew a hundred,” said Red.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Red.”

  “Don’t say anything to Awgust, while I sleep on it,” said Red.

  “No, sir, I won’t.” Money cradled the phone between his neck and shoulder, turned his back to Matthew, and fished into his pants pocket for a roll of bills. He peeled a hundred from the center.

  “I’ll call you at home later on,” said Red. “I want to think about why my nephew is lying.”

  Money hung up the phone. He folded the hundred small in the palm of his hand. “Thank you, Matthew,” he said, shaking hands with the waiter, transferring the folded bill into the waiter’s hand. “Keep the faith, Matthew.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Money,” the waiter said with a nod. “Yes sir. Anything for Mr. Red and you.”

  Sandro’s Office : July 29, 1996 : 11:30 A.M.

  “Jose Alvares is here,” Sandro’s secretary announced over the intercom. Sandro was seated behind his desk, reading the first draft of a Motion to Inspect the Grand Jury Minutes, Dismiss an Indictment, and for a Bill of Particulars in Li’l Bit’s case. He didn’t expect the Judge would actually dismiss the Indictment, but he had to make the motion.

  “Bring him in,” said Sandro as he read.

  Two days ago, an echoing, hollow-sounding phone call from Colombia was received in Sandro’s office. Since the man who called spoke only Spanish, Sandro’s Puerto Rican secretary translated for him. One of these days, he had to learn to speak Spanish, Sandro resolved for the two hundredth time. The man on the phone said he was a friend of the White Whale, from Cali, and that someone in New York would be in touch with him about something important. Yesterday, a person identifying himself as Jose Alvares called the office, also speaking only Spanish, saying that Sandro should have been expecting his call and that he wanted to make an appointment.

  The secretary opened the door to Sandro’s office and two men entered. One was of medium height and weight. He had brown, wavy hair and wore an open-necked shirt with a glitzy gold medallion on a chain displayed against his chest. Behind him was a tall, taciturn, beefy man with a thick neck. The man with the gold chain was actually Bill Santiago, a member of Supervisor Michael Becker’s D.E.A. Squad. The beefy man was Ignacio Rodriquez, one of Santiago’s informants.

  “Come in, sit down,” said Sandro, pointing to the chair opposite his desk and to the couch against the side wall. The man with the gold chain smiled, shook Sandro’s hand, saying “Jose Alvares,” and sat in the wing chair. The beefy man, without even glancing at Sandro or saying a word, sat on the couch with a fixed stare straight out the windows to Sandro’s left.

  “Do you speak English?” Sandro asked. Alvares shrugged, pursing his lips. The beefy one didn’t turn his head or respond.

  “Connie, come in a minute,” Sandro said to his secretary who had remained by the door. She walked into the room and stood behind the wing chair where Alvares sat. The beefy man sat, stared right past Connie, as if she wasn’t there.

  “How can I help you?” Sandro said toward Alvares. Connie translated.

  “I wanted to find out what is happening about the money,” Alvares said in Spanish. Connie translated into English for Sandro.

  “What money are we talking about?” Sandro said. Over the years, Sandro had developed a manner with which to speak to people professionally. He couched his thoughts in words that might be telecast over Channel 5’s nightly news broadcast. Even though Alvares said that he was sent by someone Sandro knew, Alvares was a stranger, at first a mere voice on a phone, now a mere presence in his office. In the vortex of criminals and drug traffickers caught in flagrante delicto, who cooperated with Law Enforcement, with treachery undertaken for the sake of lightening sentences of cooperators, with criminal lawyers being the tastiest morsels for prosecutors’s appetites, the danger of being sucked into the dark churn or undercover surveillance was both powerful and real. Sandro became more cautious because of that strange beef sitting on the couch, staring fixedly out the window.

  “The money from the apartment, in Queens—two million something is a lot of money.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Sandro, now wondering who this man Alvares was who was inquiring about the money that had been taken from the Quesada apartment, and which the Quesadas had already discussed with him the day after it was seized.

  “Can you find out where the money is? Why they took this money?” Connie translated Alvares’ words as he continued to speak. “It is important to know who is, you know—” Alvares rapidly opened and closed the thumb against the fingers of his left hand, like a parrot’s beak when it talks. “The informante.”

  There was something in Alvares’ tone that Sandro didn’t like. “Frankly, I don’t know where the money is. I haven’t been able to locate it yet,” said Sandro. “However, if what you want to know is who told the policia about the money—that’s very simple.”

  “Si, si?” said Alvares quickly, now moving forward to the edge of his seat. “Quien?”

  Alvares’ quick reaction to Sandro’s last remark made him realize that Alvares understood more English than he admitted. “Someone on the insid
e of some drug organization is providing information to the Government.” Connie translated Sandro’s words into Spanish.

  “Yes, of course,” Connie translated for Alvares, who now sat back again. “We would like you to find out who it is who is doing this? It is important to know.”

  Sandro shook his head. “I don’t think so.” Connie translated.

  “You don’t think it is important?” said Alvares.

  “No, I don’t think I can find out. Not unless the Government wishes to tell me—which I am sure is not going to happen.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Simply, the D.E.A. or the police, or whoever seized the money, is quite happy seizing money based on this Informant’s tips. They are not going to reveal who the person is, because once the Informant is revealed, he or she will no longer be able to provide further information, and then the Government cannot continue to seize money.”

  Alvares nodded as Connie translated. “We will pay well for this information.”

  “You’ll have to pay someone else,” said Sandro. “I cannot obtain that sort of information for you.”

  Alvares nodded. “Maybe later, when you find who has the money.”

  “Only if and when the Government wishes to tell me who their informant is. What is your connection to this money?”

  “I represent a friend of the Quesada’s, the family who had the money in their apartment. The friend is from over there, you know,” Alvares said with an elaborate gesture with his head toward the outside.

  Sandro again glanced at the tub of beef on the couch. He was still staring straight ahead, seemingly oblivious of the conversation.

  “Why is it that we do not know who has the money?” said Alvares in Spanish. Sandro waited for Connie’s translation.

  “It may be that the money hasn’t been turned in yet,” said Sandro. “Or it may be that the agents are going to pocket the money. That is quite possible.” Might as well have some fun with these people, thought Sandro.

  “Agents steal the money?” Connie translated back from the Spanish.

  “Maybe. The people who seized the money might have been thieves masquerading as police.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Alvares.

  “Or, it’s possible that they may have been real law enforcement agents who also happen to be thieves.”

  “You really want me to translate that?” Connie said to Sandro.

  “Do the best you can. I think Mr. Alvares understands some English,” Sandro said, looking directly at Alvares. Connie elaborated a long translation for Alvares.

  “You think this money was stolen by ladrones?” Connie translated for Alvares.

  “I have no idea,” said Sandro. “Once, I couldn’t find money that was seized for six months. The money was seized in Queens. It turned out that the District Attorney in Manhattan claimed to have seized the money. I’ll keep calling different police agencies. If I find that it was seized by thieves, I’ll call the police.”

  “You call the police to find these kind of thieves?” Alvares asked.

  “Absolutely. Whether the people who took the money are thieves pretending to be the police, or whether they are real agents who are thieves, whatever I find out, I will report to the police, and let the law deal with them.” That last remark had just the right ‘for-publication’ tone, thought Sandro.

  Alvares studied Sandro, as Connie, still standing behind the chair, translated Sandro’s last statement. He pursed his lips. “You are very thorough,” Alvares said. He smiled quickly, glanced over to the beefy one, who still paid no attention to anything in the room, then back to Sandro. “May I contact you again, sometime later, in case you have more information?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.” Alvares stood and reached forward to shake Sandro’s hand. The beefy one rose and turned toward the door without saying a word.

  Sandro watched Connie accompany the two men out of his office. He was still staring at the doorway when Connie walked back into his office.

  “What do you make of Haystack Calhoun?” Connie said, nodding toward the couch.

  “Both of them were strange, actually.”

  “You think Alvares was strange? I thought he was kind of cute.”

  “You think everyone is cute.”

  “No, I don’t. Only when they are,” she laughed. “It just happens to be the case that he was cute.”

  “I found him more curious than cute,” said Sandro.

  “Curious is good, too,” said Connie.

  “I think he was an Agent.”

  “Really? Why do you say that?”

  “Just a gut feeling.” In his mind, Sandro was trying to figure out what made Alvares seem more curious than cute.

  Brighton Beach : July 29, 1996 : 10:45 P.M.

  Awgust Nichols stood next to Supervisor Becker in a two-way mirrored gallery above the Arrivals hall at J.F.K. Airport. Mulvehill and Geraghty were also looking out through the mirror, as a crowd of people from the Delta flight from Bucharest entered the hall.

  “Who, exactly, are we looking for,” Becker asked Nichols as he studied the emerging crowd.

  “A fellow named Sascha. He should be with a woman, probably named Anna.”

  “You know what this Sascha looks like?” said Becker.

  “I sure do.”

  The lines of people below split into two large groups, ‘U.S. Citizens’ to one area, ‘All Others’ to a different one. In turn, the groups flowed single-file through a maze of tape stretched between thin stanchions toward Immigration Officers who sat in small cubicles, checking documents.

  “There he is now,” said Nichols, seeing Sascha emerge from the far doorway. “The one with the brown sports jacket.”

  “I thought you said he’d be with a woman,” said Becker.

  “I thought so … Wait! There’s Anna now,” he said as the line of people made its way from the escalator to the main hall. “The one in the biker’s cap.” There, toting a leather satchel, her leather biker’s hat at a rakish angle, wearing a leather jacket, jeans, and high-heeled leather boots, was Anna. She was walking and talking with a voluptuous blonde woman in a cloth coat with a thick fur collar and black leather, high heeled-boots.

  Sascha, several people ahead, then Anna and the blonde, entered the ‘All Others’ line.

  “Who’s the blonde the one in the biker’s cap is talking to?” said Becker.

  “Don’t know. I’ve never seen her before,” said Nichols.

  “Quite the looker,” said Mulvehill, “in a gaudy, Russian way,” he added.

  “Nice work if you can get it,” said Geraghty.

  “The women are completely ignoring Sascha,” said Mulvehill. “Look, they’re passing him as the line zig-zags and not even talking to him.”

  “Part of the routine,” said Becker. “If anyone is carrying kilo weight heroin, you can bet it’s strapped to the legs of one or both of the women.”

  ““On the inside of the upper thigh, right?” said Mulvehill.

  “Exactly,” said Becker, “where Customs will be unlikely to search if the women are ballsy enough and can act as if nothing is happening.”

  “She’s tough as nails, that Anna,” said Nichols.

  “She looks it. Cheap brass, both of them,” said Becker.

  “Uri will probably pick them up,” said Nichols.

  “What’s Uri look like?”

  “Bald, heavy-set, fat lips.”

  “And they’ll be going?” asked Becker.

  “From here they’ve got to go to Romanoff’s, in Brighton Beach. I’m supposed to meet Uri there in about an hour.”

  “Mother Hen to Bird Dog Two,” Becker said into the radio he held in his hand, “do you read me?”

  There was a squawk, then static. “Bird Dog Two, Mother Hen, we read you” said Lou Castoro’s voice.

  “The plane has landed,” Becker said into the radio. “Be alert for a Russian, either out in the lobby, or in a car outside. His name is Uri. Bald
, thick-set, big lips. He’ll be waiting to pick up a subject, maybe three, one male, two females, coming out of Customs. The male is in a brown sports jacket and black pants. There are two female subjects. One is dark-haired, in a leather jacket and a leather biker’s cap. The other is tall, blonde, with a black coat and big fur collar.”

  “Apprehend them?” Bird Dog Two said over the radio.

  “Negative. Just keep tabs on them, follow them. Stay well back so they don’t see you.”

  “Roger.”

  Becker turned to Mulvehill. “You’d better get out there, be ready in your car, in case the party separates.”

  Mulvehill nodded.

  “You want me to go with Pete, Boss?” Geraghty asked.

  “Yes,” said Becker as he alternately watched Sascha, then the two women, as they approached the interview booths. Supervisor Becker had been joined by a female Immigration Supervisor with dark hair and glasses, who was also looking out through the two-way windows onto the lower level and the lines of travelers. She wore an identification tag which bore the words, ‘Stanton, Supervisor’.

  “That male subject in the brown sports jacket, and those two women there,” Becker said to Supervisor Stanton. “The woman in the biker’s hat and the other woman in the fur collared coat.” Supervisor Stanton nodded. “I want as much information as we can get from their passports, names, addresses, places they’re staying in the New York area, everything your people can find out without causing suspicion.”

  “Understood,” said Supervisor Stanton. She turned and left the gallery area. In a few minutes, Becker and Nichols saw the Supervisor appear on the lower level. They watched as she spoke for a few minutes to a black Immigration Officer in a white shirt. Supervisor Stanton then walked to Interview Cubicle #14, relieving an Officer who had been interviewing incoming non-citizens. The black Immigration Officer to whom Supervisor Stanton had spoken walked over to the Officer directing the flow of non-citizens to the various interview booths. Sascha was fourth in the waiting line. Anna and the blonde were four places behind Sascha. The Officer directing traffic instructed Sascha to move to the yellow waiting line several feet back from Interview Booth #14. When Anna and the blonde reached the front of the line, without instruction, Anna started walking to Interview Booth #12. The Officer directing traffic walked over to Anna and told her to move back to the head of the main line. Anna said something to the Officer. From the look on her face, it wasn’t a compliment.